Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

  Framorg found as he continued to descend that he could not begrudge his admiration for whoever had conceived the enemy’s strike. It was truly a brilliant maneuver, heralding the presence of a very worthy adversary.

  The light of the new day was now mercifully at Framorg’s back, but he could see that the Avanoran reserve was in a terrible situation, as they stared directly into the sun. Blinded and thrown into chaos, the Avanorans scrambled erratically to respond to the deadly Saxan storm emerging right out of the sun’s rays.

  Framorg clenched his teeth, gripped the hilt of his longblade tightly, and suffered the seemingly endless moments that it was taking to reach the fray. There was little else that he could do. The Saxans had undertaken a daring ruse, and had caught even the Trogens by complete surprise.

  *

  WULFSTAN

  *

  Wulfstan and the other warriors edged forward cautiously on their bellies, to the crest of a small hill. When they had reached the top, Wulfstan and a couple of the others crept carefully forward the last few feet, and peered over.

  His heart was beating a little closer to normal. The harrowing, winding journey to the hills outside the fortress in view before them had been accomplished successfully, even if done under the clouds of constant threat.

  The small band of warriors that had traversed the forest was entirely made up of skilled woodsmen, all of whom knew how to survive, and move elusively, within a woodland environment. Some were men who were important enough to send in such a delegation, but none were of such importance that their failure would greatly hurt the Saxan defense out on the Plains of Athelney.

  All were from the Select Fyrd, ceorls of different means who were known for their skills in tracking, hunting, archery, and other areas that could prove useful to the covert, risk-laden delegation. The largely beardless faces amongst the small war band indicated their younger nature, as the sojourn was fraught with a high level of stressful, tiring physical exertion, and had to be pressed forward with the greatest of haste.

  Movement and concealment were of the highest priority, an increasing difficulty under skies regularly patrolled by the enemy’s Trogen sky riders. The war band traveled very lightly, wearing no helm or mail shirt, either of which could glint inopportunely in the reflecting light of moon or sun. A few of the northerners wore ridged, forward pointing caps, but most let their hair flow freely.

  Their woolen clothes were all of earthen, dull colors, off-whites and browns, the garments blending well with the shadows and trees of the woodlands that they traveled through. They carried only leather pouches at their waists, a single-edged seax, and their principle weapons, opting to leave their large round shields behind with their mail and helms, the shields a liability with their cumbersome size, and reflective iron bosses.

  The night sky, with modest cloud cover, had capably shrouded their clandestine movements as they skirted around the territory being patrolled by the forces from Ehrengard. A couple of men who lived in the immediate region helped lead the group along the shadowy trails through the brush and trees of the thicker forest region located to the south and west of the battlefield.

  There were no herepaths in the younger woodlands, by which an army could march through, and the forest itself presented an obstacle to a large force. It had been left that way long ago, so that any armies threatening the Saxan lands would be forced into the Plains of Athelney, or be made to face a highly vulnerable, plodding passage through the dense forest growths.

  While the invaders had sent raiding and foraging parties into the area, the Saxans’ intimate knowledge of the forest lent a great advantage to the small war band. Those that were native to the land knew the natural pathways that enemies would have had to scout out endlessly, so as not to be stuck within an obstructive labyrinth of thorns and brush. With a surety of direction, the Saxan war band was able to maintain a brisk pace, covering well more than four leagues through the thick forest-growth.

  The stout fortress belonging to the alloidal lord Godric now stood before their eyes, at journey’s end. The fortress’s high, palisaded walls crowned a tall earthen rampart that sloped sharply downward, completely ringing the circular perimeter. It was a fort designed in the old way, reflecting methods of the former Southern Kingdom. Four gates set at equal distances from each other pierced the fortress, effectively dividing the interior into wedge-shaped quarters.

  Within the main walls of the fortress, they could identify a more streamlined enclosure, filled with a variety of timber buildings with sharply-sloped roofs. A large hall with gable ends stood out prominently amongst all of the sundry buildings, a structure that Wulfstan surmised was the main hall of Godric himself. A number of guards bearing spears, and a few with curving longbows that were strung and at the ready, could be seen walking slowly along the inner perimeter of the palisade-crowned rampart.

  The final instructions given to the Saxan warriors involved the existence of a specific underground tunnel, one that all of their hopes rested on. The information also imparted some of the history and lore of the fortress to Wulfstan, and those others of the group who were not from the immediate area.

  The fortress might have been bequeathed as a freehold in past times, but one small aspect of its construction had been acutely remembered, and passed down quietly, within a few certain families in the Saxan Kingdom. That carefully transferred heritage of knowledge was about to demonstrate its value.

  Wulfstan had to concede that the storied southern king Clovis II had possessed excellent foresight in the moment that he had initially bestowed the fortress and lands upon Conrad the Ironheart. In the instance that a day of treachery or grave threats beckoned towards the larger kingdom, if the freehold was ever held by someone as suspect in their integrity as Godric, Clovis II had taken a precaution. He had seen to it that the future generations would have a valuable piece of knowledge at their behest, to utilize during a dark hour such as the present time.

  If the tunnel was still fully in place, and had not ever been discovered and blocked by its occupiers, the continued diligence of a small group of related nobles down the long ages would have made possible a gift of hope to the present Saxans. It was now undeniably the darkest hour that the Saxans had ever faced, and each possible advantage at hand was worth more than many towering piles of silver.

  “The question is simply where the tunnel entrance is, exactly,” Wulfstan said in a low voice to the men close at his side.

  “Should we spread out now?” a warrior on his left side asked. “We know the general area.”

  “Not yet,” Wulfstan said, shooting a serious glance at the warrior. “We need to watch this place, closely, for as long as we can spare. From what we have come to know of this Godric, there are no certainties regarding his loyalties. They may have already been given to our enemies, and we need to see if we can tell.”

  The other warrior nodded to him in apparent agreement, and went back to a mode of silent observation. Over the course of the next hour, as the morning sun crawled ever higher into the sky, the small group of Saxans remained almost motionless, in their places on the hill’s summit.

  Wulfstan’s eyes scanned the wide, open ground surrounding the base of the fortress, studying the land and its features carefully. To the immediate west of the fortress, there were cleared fields that likely belonged to the nearest village. There was no sign of any activity within the fields, which did not surprise Wulfstan entirely. The villagers were likely to have gone into hiding at the presence of such vast armies as those now invading Saxany.

  The villagers were wise to choose seclusion in any instance. Whether an army in the vicinity was friend or foe, there were always individuals within any force who were both capable and willing to commit atrocities, such as spilling blood over a little bread, a haunch of meat, or a cask of ale. That did not even begin to take account of the pervasive lusts of humankind that erupted viciously within the chaos of a war.

  Men with shadowy hearts tended to swift
ly avail themselves of the breakdown of order, escaping from their own hatred of life by visiting great evils upon others. The harsh reality was that the value of life always tumbled precipitously during a time of war, and Wulfstan could not begin to find fault in those who still valued it enough to flee.

  As for himself, he valued life as much as they did, but knew that he was both readily able and highly motivated to strike back against those who did not. Not everyone in possession of good intentions could be said to be in such a position, mostly due to a lack of necessary skills.

  It was a regrettable truth borne out over long ages of warfare. Many a peasant villager had the inspiration to oppose barbarity, but few had the capability. Such a reality had resulted in a sad litany of tragedy, filled with flames, gorged lusts, and blood.

  Off in the distance to the east of the fortress there was a large contingent of mounted warriors coming within sight, with pennons flying from the ends of several of their lances. The mass of riders were still at a far enough range that Wulfstan could not make out the specific designs on the pennons, but he was all but certain as to whom the riders belonged to.

  Another hour passed by, with no significant activity perceptible around the fortress. Godric’s men kept pacing along the wall-walks, and several individuals could be seen moving among the buildings within the enclosure, but there was nothing to indicate the presence of anything unusual.

  A few of the men in the band of Saxans began to get edgy as time passed, looking up regularly towards the cloud-streaked skies for signs of enemy sky riders. Wulfstan then heard the light shuffling of cloth against the dew-dampened grass, just as he felt a body pull up right beside him.

  “What do you wait for?” Cenwald whispered to Wulfstan. “The longer we stay, the greater the chance we may be discovered.”

  “I am waiting for certainty. It would appear that few trust this Godric,” Wulfstan replied evenly, glancing over to Cenwald. He then added, “And we should not become lax in this. We may be free now, but we are far from our encampment and army, and the moment that we go into that fortress we will place ourselves in Godric’s power. Let us first see in whose influence that power lies.”

  Whether Cenwald’s growing impatience invoked something or not, the sight of a broad shadow crossing the expanse of ground before the hill subsequently grabbed their attention. The dark patch glided along the ground’s surface, moving speedily towards the fortress.

  Looking upward, Wulfstan espied the distinctive form of an armed Trogen mounted upon a Harrak. The sky rider was coming in at a very low altitude from the east, where the armies of the Unifier were fiercely engaged with the massed Saxan forces.

  The position of the Saxan observers on the hilltop was a fortuitous one, as they were located almost directly to the south of the fortress. With the upper contour of the hill that they were prostrate behind, they were afforded a good measure of concealment, and were well-hidden to the eyes of the low-flying rider.

  The sky rider would have only caught sign of them if he had been carefully scanning the hilltop, but the summit was clearly of little concern to the Trogen. The sky rider’s eyes were fixed ahead on the fortress, as the Harrak swooped in on a fairly level plane.

  The Harrak then angled even lower, as the rider guided the creature down sharply. The sky steed came within bowshot of the high ramparts at last, without its rider showing any kind of care, or even signal of some kind. Significantly, no alarm was forthcoming from within the fortress either, nor were any arrows loosed in defense of it.

  The guards on the walls paused in their walking for a moment, idly watching the Harrak’s passage just over their heads into the midst of the fortress. Rider and steed disappeared from Wulfstan’s sight as they landed upon the ground within the inner fortress, close to one of the four gates.

  “There, some other riders,” Cenwald then whispered, a little excitedly, drawing Wulfstan’s attention towards about a half-dozen figures mounted on horseback that were sauntering up the winding path leading to the eastern gate.

  One of the men was flying a pennon near the blade end of a long spear. The pennon was largely rectangular in shape, with the longest edge vertical. From the side opposite the spear shaft, there were three, elongated, triangular tendrils that streamed out to their endpoints. Most of the pennon was yellow in color, save for a vertical blue strip that formed the right edge of the rectangular portion. The middle of the triangular extensions was also that same blue color, the other two being yellow.

  “Avanoran,” Wulfstan murmured to Cenwald tensely, taking note of the pennon whose appearance and coloration he had so recently learned about, under very life-threatening circumstances.

  He watched as the gate swung open to allow the riders unimpeded access to the interior of the fortress. The calm, unopposed entrance of the sky rider and the mounted warriors into the fortress made a clear, unobstructed statement concerning the situation at hand. It told Wulfstan everything that he needed to know, confirming the worst of his fears.

  “That explains everything, and answers the certainty that I sought,” Wulfstan said in a low, edgy voice, the lines on his neck popping above the skin’s surface, as he clenched his jaw in hot irritation. All of the fears and rumors that he had ever heard about Godric had manifested before his eyes. “You see, caution is sometimes very advised. Now we know that a traitor is surely at hand.”

  Wulfstan fell into a stony silence, passing on the word for all of the others to wait just a little longer. There would be no need to send any sort of delegation to the perfidious lord, but there was always need for information on an enemy.

  All of the years that Saxany had allowed Godric, and those who preceded him, running all the way back to Conrad the Ironheart, to flourish, had counted for absolutely nothing in the darkest of hours. When the entire Saxan realm was under grave threat, and needed the loyalty of the allodial freehold the most, Godric had discarded the years of support, friendship, and trade, on a calculated gamble.

  The realization was maddening, and a burning desire for retribution coalesced inside Wulfstan. He began to foment a rough idea involving the tunnel, one that just might deliver Godric the reward that he so richly deserved for his duplicity. Wulfstan was not a commander in the group, such that he could order any attack, but he could put forth a suggestion for the others to consider. Having a good idea of the mettle of the men who he had traversed the forest with, he felt that there was a good chance that any workable idea to strike a blow at Godric would be well-received.

  Wulfstan had to think quickly, but he did so clearly, and without any inner conflict, as there was no doubt as to what side Godric had cast his lot with. The tunnel had to be found very soon, and fires would have to be started swiftly from within.

  Food supplies would be the most valuable target, as Godric had likely hoarded a substantial supply from the nearby villages under his dominion. Wulfstan knew that it would not go to the people on Godric’s land, but would feed the hunger of the invaders. The timber buildings that served as stores for such foodstuffs and supplies would have to be identified before the Saxans moved into the fortress.

  Keeping to his belly, Wulfstan began to back down the hill, in order to summon the war band together. There remained a matter of consensus, before any final evaluation of the fortress’s buildings and layout could take place for a possible raid. Agreement to a strike on the fortress would also decide the necessity of searching out the tunnel entrance.

  He had gotten no more than a couple body lengths down the slope when Cenwald’s agitated voice called out to him from above.

  “Wulfstan, more come, quickly, get up here!” Cenwald whispered hurriedly, looking fleetingly back to him, and gesturing sharply for him to come back up with impetus.

  Wulfstan got to his hands and knees, and scurried up the short length, forsaking meticulous caution and falling flat on the ground next to Cenwald. He peered back in the direction of the fortress.

  “Up, there, to the right,” Cenwa
ld directed him, pointing. “Look at that!”

  Like a cloud breaking up into several tendrils, a massed contingent of Trogen sky riders were rapidly descending from the upper skies. They were approaching along a similar route to that of the lone rider that had arrived just moments before.

  “The new day is bringing many surprises,” Wulfstan muttered darkly, keeping his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before him.

  As if instinctively, Wulfstan’s eyes shot back over towards the place where the small group of horsemen had been sighted. His eyes alighted upon another, much larger force of mounted riders, just a second before Cenwald urged him to look upon the newly-arriving, swiftly moving contingent.

  A realization dawned on him, even as Cenwald called his attention to the fact that the horse riders were cantering as a full body directly towards the eastern gate of the fortress. The rumbling of the steeds’ hooves pounding across the ground flowed like a muffled thunder.

  A large number of the incoming Trogens swarmed around the same gate that the horse-mounted force was heading towards, and faint cries of alarm erupted suddenly from the wall-walks. There was no time to gather any significant defense, as Godric’s men had plainly been caught unawares. A raid was taking place, though not one that Godric or his men had apparently expected.

  Harraks dipped and swooped around the wall-walks, while others dropped down behind the wall. A few others broke away to beset other areas of the wall-walk, darting and flying about the high ramparts.

  The tall wooden gates then slowly swung open from the inside, as the horse riders continued their approach along the ground. Drawing closer to the fortress, the riders shifted from a canter to a full gallop as they streaked towards the opening. They were now close enough for Wulfstan to see that the pennons flying in the riders’ midst were identical to the ones carried by the small group that had freely entered just moments prior.